


Fimbulvetr

by vanishing_apples



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, rating might be raised for final chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-01-05 19:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_apples/pseuds/vanishing_apples
Summary: The great winter blurs the line between death and longevity, and it does so by robbing his life of meaning.





	1. Chapter 1

Clad in wintry winds, frigid white crystals dance through the desolate landscape. Beyond the lonely sphere of light encompassing his eternal flame, opaque darkness rolls with the snow-capped hills - prevailing remnants of a decaying world. 

Were it not for the intensity of his fire, Shiva would perhaps find company in the countless stars encrusting the indigo sky. But great distance renders their luminosity woefully modest, so easily drowned out by his own vibrance. These lands have not known moonlight for months. How can the moon shine when the sun - whose light it once borrowed - is no more?

The bulge under his heavy cloak stirs. Nagaraja peeks out to flick their tongue at his exposed knuckles. Beady eyes gaze up, quietly scolding. 

“Rest easy, my friend. No danger shall breach the protection of my flames, so long as I am conscious.”

An accusatory headbutt. Nagaraja’s eyes twinkle in the orange light of Shiva’s fire which consumes no fuel. The primal beast smiles reassuringly, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You need not worry. My body is a very long way from succumbing to fatigue… But if unease is keeping you from rest, perhaps this will be of help.”

The colourful little bracelet is slipped over Nagaraja’s head, the weight of the shanti attached pulling it smoothly down their neck’s impressive length. Almost instantly, the sharp gleam in the snake’s eyes softens. With one last dig of their snout into Shiva’s cheek, Nagaraja withdraws inside his cloak and curls into a tight ball. Shuffling so the bracelet rests snuggly at the center of their coiled up body, the serpent king welcomes sleep.

Shiva chuckles to himself as if the persistent anxiety clinging to his back is suddenly nonexistent.

“I’m glad it gives you as much solace as it does me.”

\---

“...Oooh I remember! The yellow strand is supposed to represent prosperity, the red one luck, and the blue one tranquility! The braid looks deceptively simple, but there’s a specific way that you’re supposed to weave the strands together. So it’s red in the middle, then blue crosses over it from the left, then…”

Shiva drinks in Grimnir’s every word, his eyes transfixed to the minutest of the wind primal’s movements. Colourful, unused strips of wool hover in their vicinity, resting on invisible beds of air beside other trinkets Shiva has brought. Under the madder glow of dusk, Nagaraja peacefully dozes off on another air cushion, their tail still wrapped around a bamboo sphere with which they have been amusing themselves. 

The atmosphere stirs below, air currents in constant motion and whistling on all sides, but the winds that envelope their bodies are imbued with comfort. The cool brushes of Grimnir’s winds offset the sun’s at times stifling warmth in a seemingly precarious yet enduring balance. 

“And… Tadaa! That’s how you properly make a braided cord bracelet!” - The wind primarch’s disciple triumphantly holds out his hand.

In Grimnir’s palm lies a crude semblance of the beautiful cords Shiva saw on display at the children of man’s marketplace. But having watched Grimnir work with such passion, the fire primal harbours nothing but admiration towards the show of clumsy craftsmanship he just witnessed.

“Amazing. And to think my intention of visiting was to relay to you what I’ve learned of the cultures of mortals. Yet here I am, being enlightened by your much more expansive knowledge.” 

“Heheh, that’s all from the books you brought me…” - Grimnir’s nostrils flare, a sheepish but prideful grin stretching to his ears. - “I mean…! Hah! Of course I, the chaperone of all-traversing gales, would be so well-versed in worldly customs! Such trivia are thus easily within the scope of my boundless wisdom, I’ll have you know! Same for the long, rich history underlying the craft…”

It takes very little to prompt one of Grimnir’s lengthy, prose-laden tangents. The momentum of their conversations has always been as such: Grimnir prattling on as Shiva occasionally interjects with appreciative exclamations. The routine has persisted since Shiva began traveling under the leadership of this era’s Singularity. Their positions and circumstances may change with time, but the perpetuity of their time together provides both Shiva and Grimnir a constant refuge. 

Until Shiva’s mortal companions inevitably call for him, that is. This time, they do so before the last sunbeams can melt into darkness and Grimnir is at least left to the company of the stars.

“...I must go. My adherents seek my guidance.”

“Ah… Okay…” - Drooped ears betray Grimnir’s energetic facade. - “May our paths cross in the foreseeable future, then, o’ mighty herald of salvation!”

The permanence of their routine entails farewells being everlastingly difficult, no matter how many times they are repeated. Shiva’s chest still tightens at the way Grimnir’s left hand’s fingers would subconsciously dig into his right arm, as if to numb himself to the chill of his own gales. A contagious, lonesome chill that not even Shiva’s purifying flames can ward off. 

This melancholy may be an undesirable constant, but towards the end of somewhat soothing the discomfort, perhaps he can do something differently, Shiva thinks.

“I should have given you this long ago, but among the children of men there is such a saying as ‘better late than never’.” 

The fire primal unfurls his fingers, arm outstretched. Nagaraja heeds the silent cue immediately, slithering from their cushion up Shiva’s body to drop a small, gleaming jewel in his open palm. 

“Pray upon this shanti when you desire my company, and I shall be there.”

A pause precedes the Grimnir’s response, and Shiva delights in the way the wind primal’s eyes twinkle with a glint of newfound hope.

“Heheh… You’re a real worrywart, aren’t you…” - As if to physically the shed the sorrow from his voice, Grimnir shakes his head. - “But have no fear, for the fearsome Mad Cyclone, Grimnir, has fared flourishingly on his own since time immemorial!”

Despite his reassurance embellished with the usual gratuitous theatrics, Grimnir eagerly plucks the jewel from Shiva’ palm. 

“Besides, it’s a full-time job up here anyway! Between maintaining this atmosphere and dropping down to help you guys whenever I’m called, that is.”

“I see. It’s good to know that your time is sufficiently occupied.”

A bald-faced lie, they are equally aware. Longevity renders time a superfluous resource which no amount of activity could thoroughly consume. Without the company of others, solitude would fill the idle emptiness with its crushing, ever-amassing weight.

“...Then… I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Indeed. Until next time, god of war.”

Nagaraja safely wrapped around his neck, Shiva prepares for descent. But his steps are halted by Grimnir’s sudden, urgent cry. 

“W-Wait! Will this thing still work if I hook it to the braided cord?”

“Yes. That’s a fine idea, in fact.” - He shouldn’t dawdle, but Shiva can’t help the perplexing surge of relief brought about by the delay of his return.

“Got it! Uh… And can you bring me one of those fabled deep fried butter sticks next time?”

“Of course, anything for you.”

“Gee, thanks! …Okay, one last thing, I swear.”

“Yes?”

Grimnir’s lips part but then promptly close themselves before any utterance. His feet shuffle, fingers twist together and into the cord bracelet until its delicate fibres threaten to unravel in his struggle for words. Despite Grimnir’s effort, only ones painfully inadequate at encapsulating the brewing storm in his heart leave his mouth.

“The Singularity, the red dragon and the girl in blue, everybody on that airship… They’re all… well?”

Are they in good health? How are they faring on their travels? Are they treating Shiva, Alexiel and Europa hospitably? How does Shiva find their company? Is everyone having fun?

He wants to know, his throat burns with a fervent need to know. _Anything_ of the actual experience of living among mortals, among others. The questions trapped swirling in his skull would better sate his curiosity than the sorry excuse of an enquiry that just left his lips. But in his foolishness, Grimnir has limited himself to just the lacklustre one. 

It would be uncouth to stall Shiva for longer with his selfishness, in any case.

“I believe you’ve witnessed their vigour for yourself, whenever summoned to their aid in combat?” - Shiva replies, puzzled as he is oblivious.

“Oh… Then I guess they are well.”


	2. Chapter 2

Frozen trees line what was once been a beaten path. Across all islands, little terrain diversity survives the perpetual blizzards’ wholesale bleaching. He has long forgotten exactly when the snow-draped ground began to blend into the ashen sky. Mass hysteria evoked by the sun’s gradual death sucked the energy out of all living things. When someone came to notice, land and sky had both been robbed of definition and distinction, visually joined together in all-encompassing darkness.

Shiva winces as the wind sweeps up a flurry of icy powder. Nagaraja shivers against his body, shrinking away from where the snow has brushed them upon infiltrating his cloak. The girthy trunks of pines - long dead from their inability to photosynthesise - stand encrusted with snow. They gleam in his fire’s light like ancient columns of textured marble. Were it not for the turbulent gusts at higher altitudes, Shiva would be able to more efficiently navigate his surroundings by aerial view. For now, the dead trees will have to suffice as his only guides.

Lack of sunlight renders “time” almost null and void as a concept. It’s near impossible to tell how long his legs have carried him, but he pushes on with firm belief that the artificial rows of trees would lead to civilisation. Or whatever remains of it.

Shiva’s assumption proves correct as the first collapsed, half-buried wooden house falls into view. Soon appear many more of its kind, at various stages of degradation and purposefully scattered in the typical circular arrangement of a small town. The settlement’s gate must have wasted away at some point, along with the majority of its population, presumably. Pathways between the ruinous structures are occupied only by the woeful howling of wintry winds. What used to be the townsquare is a frozen white void laid over buried cobblestones. 

The crunch of Shiva’s boots on snow resounds in the enclosed emptiness until his arrival at the townsquare. Deserted as the place may seem, he can sense the presence of life - languishing, suffering, but nonetheless persevering. At the beckon of his undulating glow, the town’s last living occupants emerge.

“You’re here…! You’re finally here!” - A wizened, cadaverous old man dashes out of his ruinous shed and stumbles towards him. 

One by one, his surviving neighbours follow - each just as ghastly and emaciated as he is, some on the verge of death and being carried on makeshift stretchers. They ebb towards him in sparse, careening waves, everyone struggling for the last gulps of oxygen the island has to offer. When they reach him, be it from fatigue or reverence, the townspeople all fall to their knees. 

“It’s just as the informant said… It’s really him!” - Another old man cries out. 

“Yes… Four arms… his ivory-skinned serpent…” - Exclaims a sickly pale woman. - “Indeed… he is destruction… no… salvation incarnate!” 

“We’ve been expecting you!”

The clamouring of feeble rejoice, more tears and urgent pleas quickly displace the winds’ forlorn wails. Unable to find a gap of silence with which he may interject, Shiva stands mum, letting his heart soak up these mortal’s collective anguish. 

“Please, end us!”

“We beg of you… We can’t stand the cold, the hunger or slow suffocation anymore…”

“Let me go to my children!”

“Let me join my husband!”

In seconds, they go from prostrating at his feet to clawing up his thighs. Driven to the brink of sanity, the mob is whirled into a shared, demented frenzy which renders them impervious to even Nagaraja’s admonishing hisses. 

Shiva remains calm but pensive. Having witnessed the same spectacle play out many times over in other communities, distress has long abandoned his heart to glum sympathy. He knows nothing said or done will help these mortals reclaim their humanity. Nothing will quell their madness. Only death by his flames brings salvation. 

As he has done countless times, Shiva sucks in a deep breath, then begins conjuring up the image of roaring conflagrations behind his eyelids.

“Get away from my mom, wicked beast!!”

The flung snowball melts into oblivion before it even reaches him. From whence the feeble assault came, a single raggedy child meets his gaze with a glare. Her cry has the town plunged back into silence, defiant green eyes threaten to burn up the frozen landscape with their unyielding claim to life. 

“...You won’t kill us! Father will be back from the battlefield comes spring, and we’ll live to see him again!”

It is always the children - the most vulnerable victims of this calamity - who nurture the most hope for a future they won’t ever see. This girl is not unlike those before her already put to rest, afflicted with the additional curse of being her own community’s last child survivor. 

Urged by sympathy, Shiva’s legs pull themselves out of the snow to approach the girl. A gangly woman at the crowd’s periphery beats him to it.

“He won’t return.” - She says, her voice cold as the gaze falling from her hollow eyes. 

“But… mom!” - The child retorts. - “He promised! And… and we also promised-”

“Your father is dead, Adelheid!!”

The silence that follows is deafening. Adelheid’s knees tremble, her jaw hung agape as she is kept standing by the shoulders only by her mother’s bony hands. Despair drains the girl’s face of colour until it rivals the snow in paleness. 

“He’s… not…”

“He’s dead. The deliverer of warriors is well on his way towards Albion, having already swept this entire island clean of our fighting, working men.”

Dread stirs, its claws scraping at the walls of Shiva’s stomach.

“You’re lying…” - The girl’s voice quivers with tears. - “He can’t… Dad is the strongest, the smartest…! He’s unbeatable!”

“Not against a god who embodies war itself.” - The primal beast finally raises his voice. - “Not him, not even armies of mortals like him.” 

The winds’ cold edge feels sharpened, cutting deeper into the skins of the mortals who are finally united in resignation. Solemnly, Shiva leads the girl and her mother back to their pack.

“We’ll be with your father soon.” - He hears the woman whispers to her child. 

The words yield no response.

With the skydwellers rounded up, Shiva’s third eye cracks open after a moment’s concentration. He soon has them all - their broken, pallid faces awash with a mixture of relief and primordial fear - in the eye of a fiery maelstrom. Spit out between the flames’ flailing tongues, the child’s final words reach him drenched in acrimony.

“Heinous monster! Who let you decide when we are to die!?”

Unbelief carves into his very being like well-tempered steel, but Shiva’s pain rarely makes itself known on his face. With undented composure, he replies, his own words further driving the wedge into his heart. 

“We all died with the sun.”

\---

Perched on a bed of icy vapour, Grimnir strains his eyes waiting for light to speckle the unseen horizon. Darkness defiantly stares back, but neither its hollow indifference nor the numbing of his exposed cheeks can curb his excitement. He knows it isn’t right to be eager for something like this, but his chest swells with an eagerness too instinctive, too fundamental to his very existence to be deterred by simple rationality.

Arbiter of strife, overseer of combat, _warfare incarnate_. Conflict - encoded into the fabric of his being - has only been kept in check by other, more savoury aspects of war. Chivalry, justice, egalitarianism, along with Grimnir’s fodness for romantic heroism fueled by the mortal fantasies he loves, hold firm reigns over his natural propensity for violence. In addition, his pact with the atmosphere once dictated that his strength be wielded by the sporadic whims of mortals. With the pact gone, at least, he is eager and ready to indulge the limits of his own capabilities. Finally, with an entire battlefield to himself, Grimnir can really _fight_. 

A speck of snow flits into his nostril, prompting a harsh sneeze. Grimnir’s shoulders tremble from the ensuing shiver. Even the thick turtleneck and cloak worn under his usual, breezy armour seem to fail against the plummeting temperatures. He spaces out momentarily from an absent-minded yearning for Nagaraja’s familiar warmth around his neck, but is pulled from the trance by far-off clusters of light. Turning to the opposite direction, he confirms the same phenomenon’s unraveling at the sky’s other end. 

Grimnir’s heart drums in his chest.

Ribbons of air descend on his voiceless beckoning, their frigid arms coil like tendrils around Grimnir to aid his ascension. Higher and higher, his field of vision expands like a jet black basin whose slopes gradually pull the little luminous dots into its center. 

A complacent breath huffed out through his nose, Grimnir grins at the prospect of certain triumph. This is already too easy. Just close quarters combat? Sure, it makes for a swift and clean victory, but he still can’t help the mild disappointment. Warfare is an art, after all, and as the art form’s patron saint, Grimnir would always appreciate a certain degree of tactical sophistication. 

The clusters of torchlights now close to converging, Grimnir readies for his descent. Heavenly spear brandished, the god of war’s bandaged right arm begins to glow steel blue. The bandages fully unravel to permit the full intensity of his light. Bright and ethereal as Polaris, Grimnir arrests the attention of the feuding skydwellers below, his luminosity putting their torches to shame as it casts a wide field of clarity over the battleground. 

“Rejoice, o’ foolish mortals, for you are among the first of your kind chosen for divine salvation!! In these times of sweeping calamity, I should pass judgment upon your choice of senseless slaughter instead of helping your fellow man! Alas, in the face of encompassing doom, all shall be equal in death. My duty is thus no longer judgment, but your swift, painless deliverance!” 

Deeply inhaling a large gulp of cold air to fortify his composure, lest his feverish zeal surfaces, Grimnir finishes the preamble in deific fashion.

“Your opponent is not each other but I, Grimnir - the Dancing Windstorm, arbiter of war! Give me your best fight as heroes with those final breaths. Show me that your souls are worthy of the glory of Valhalla!!”

And the war god’s dance of annihilation commences. Complacent and uncaring of a vision blurred by his own luminosity, Grimnir descends on screeching gales and indiscriminately tears into the troops with childish, reckless abandon. Adrenaline courses through his veins with each spray of blood, while the light from his spear tip pulsates with each thrust, swing and strike. 

Rationality all but shut off, Grimnir flies into a spree of blind violence, bent on taking every life in his immediate vicinity. Screams, if there are any, no longer reaches his ears. Even in his beastly rampage the wind primal keeps his promise of swift and painless deliverance. Every strike brings certain fatality, an instinctive application of his detailed knowledge on mortals’ vital points. 

Before long, the entire battlefield is virtually void of standing men and burning torches, illuminated only by Grimnir’s right arm. His spear rests upright, tip driven into the crimson snow. The war god balances himself with numb hands on wobbling knees, ragged breaths exiting his mouth in steamy puffs. Rationality slowly returns as he basks in the pure _delight_ of exhaustion. Grimnir can’t remember the last time his muscles ached like this, the last time his lungs burned with acid each breath exhaled, the last time he tasted such _thrill_ . Drenched in blood, his arm and spear now glow pink.

A lone crimson beacon amidst the dead-strewn, frozen ground - life sears his body as it never has. 

But even the euphoric numb of violence wears off. Soon, Grimnir regains his senses. Ears finally available for auditory input, he hears it. Barely masked by the sorrowful moans of the snow-laden winds are those unmistakably human. A lead-like, frigid weight grips his stomach.

He finds him among the corpses… no… purposefully hidden under them - the last survivor - trembling with fear but miraculously unharmed. Calling the situation awkward would be a sinful understatement. 

“Y-you!” - Betraying his previous bravado, Grimnir meekly raises his voice. 

The man remains huddled on his side, hugging his knees and whimpering. The war god purses his lips, displeased by the pathetic display.

“Wh… What’s up with you, huh!? Aren’t you a warrior of your people!? Where’s your courage!? Valhalla has standards, y’know! I mean… I did promise total indiscriminate salvation and all that… but still! At least put in some effor-”

“...ie.”

“...Huh?” - Recognising what may be comprehensible syllables from the man, Grimnir comes closer, straining his ears. 

“...die… I don’t want to die… I’m sorry… Daddy’s sorry…”

When adequate proximity has allowed light from his arm to shine upon the man’s entire body, it is already too late. Grimnir finds himself cursed with a knowledge… an image he could have done without for the rest of time. 

Deathly pale skin, spotted by disease and streaked with bulging veins. The man is more covered by the blackening blood of his comrades than his own threadbare clothing. Parts of his limbs show clear sign of necrosis. This creature should not be alive and yet, is clinging to putrid life in sheer desperation. 

Shock shoves Grimnir backwards. His right arm, breaking his fall as it sinks into the snow, distributes its light with the countless water crystals in its vicinity to illuminate a wider stretch of ground. All around him, the other dead look the same: mottled, bleached skin stretched over emaciated bodies, growing paler as blood slowly pools out of them.

Horrific realisation robs him of all warmth. These were no valiant soldiers united under a cause, not even bloodthirsty barbarians clashing over riches. These men were all pitiful, unwilling, hopeless creatures marching towards certain doom. Perhaps they really were fighting over dwindling resources, or brought together in unanimous pretense of it. He wouldn’t know, he will never know. There is only one thing Grimnir does know: not a shred of cause nor valour brought them here. 

His delusions of chivalry, of heroism and honourable warfare - painstakingly culminated through centuries - shatter in an instant like decadent glass monuments. He was killing no more than sickened _civilians_ , gleefully, in fact. With this still living individual, his job isn’t even finished. 

“...I’m sorry… I couldn’t protect you all… I’m sorry we have no food…”

But he _has_ to finish it. There is no other choice. His comrades entrusted him with the world’s battlefields before going their separate ways. If Grimnir can’t be trusted with _one_ thing - his very first assignment after being liberated from his atmosphere pact - then what worth does he have? 

_Salvation is a just cause. They all died with the sun._ \- His mind loops the reminder like a broken record in its frantic effort to deter the claws of guilt from ripping him in twain. Guilt, and an accumulating, snowballing grief. 

“I’m sorry… S… Urgh!!”

The deed is done. 

Grimnir barely remembers moving. His spear seems to have lodged itself in the man’s back of its own accord, glowing brighter at his wide-eyed horror in what feels like cold, sinister felicitation. The weapon’s intensified luminosity brings to his light something that could not be more out of place: Frayed, bloodied and barely clinging to the freshly slain man’s wrist - a colourful braided cord enters view. 

Dropping the spear, one of his hands grips his other’s wrist where his own braided cord rests. His jaw drops open in a voiceless scream erupting from his very core.

And the wretched landscape is engulfed in apocalyptic fire. When Grimnir comes to, _he_ is already there before his eyes - his own bringer of salvation.

“...God of war.” - Shiva starts after a quick scan of his surroundings. - “What is it that you need?”

“Huh…?”

Shiva’s flames seem to make the rolling dark smog of an anxious breakdown within Grimnir dissipate. But the wind primal’s senses do not return without cost. An different breed of guilt begins to flood his chest.

“N… It’s n-nothing!!” - He stammers, almost toppling face-first into the grimy snow as he scrambles to retrieve his spear - “Sorry… for the false alarm. I just… uh… touched the shanti by accident, y’know! It happens!”

Shiva raises a sceptical eyebrow to which Grimnir responds with forced, dumb laughter that could not sound more like a whimper. Self-loathing resumes in its determination to silently poison him. 

Noticing Grimnir’s distress, Shiva refrains from pointing out that one cannot simply summon him “by accident”, that the act is not so simple as accidentally touching his idol of worship but requires either prayer or a fervent plea for help. He makes no mention of having heard Grimnir’s heart crying.

“S-So! Shiva, how are things at your end?” - Grimnir clumsily changes the subject. - “Any updates from Europa and Alexiel? Or…” 

_Your other crewmates_ \- is what almost tumbles from his lips. The returning awareness of the Singularity and their fellow mortal travellers’ permanent absence stills his tongue timely. Ever merciful, Shiva ignores this as well.

“I have cleared all inland skydweller settlements of survivors in this skydom’s Southwestern region. No words from Europa since her departure for the coastal areas, but it is understandable given her hectic race against falling temperatures. Alexiel is moving on to her third mountain range…”

Ah, of course they are all performing swimmingly. Shiva, Europa and Alexiel are motivated by a passionate, common sentimentality kindled by shared memories of camaraderie during their time traveling among mortals. Their desire for these beings’ salvation is thus justified as it is deeply _personal_. 

Grimnir, on the other hand, is the only one not equipped with any of such experiences. His commitment stems more from a juvenile idolisation of mortal culture. That, and perhaps the vestiges of desperate longing for a life among the mortals he so admires. A life which he never did, never could and never will have.

But without this cause, what other meaning is there to his so-called newfound freedom?

“I… see! Everyone’s doing great, then. That’s good!”

Grimnir would be a fool to think Shiva buys into his charade for one second. And yet he tries anyway, in some vague and futile effort to salvage his dignity.

But Shiva has had enough of beating around the bush.

“Indeed, we’re making progress. I see that you have done a good job here as well.” - His eyes lock with the wind primal’s in a stern gaze which earns him a tiny yelp. - “However, it would be utter foolishness to deny any ensuing hardship acknowledgement.”

Grimnir’s bites his lower lip, Shiva’s words a sharp stake through the flimsy lid forced over his festering emotions. His cheeks strain under conscious effort to stop tears from spilling free. In the process, his white, bitten lip threatens to rupture.

As Grimnir trembles, it is Shiva’s turn to be overcome with guilt and mild panic. He never harboured the intention to further upset, let alone prompt his partner to injure himself. Alarmed, Shiva does the only, arguably, sensible thing he could think of.

Shiva’s lips against his are soft heat, soothing balm and a firm entreaty for his self-preservation all at once. A violent blush flares to Grimnir’s face, deepening as if to rival the blood splattered on his skin. Within the three seconds it lasts, most of the self-hatred within him is all but replaced by surprise and a more urgent, skittish anxiety that cause gibberish to fly from his mouth.

“Heroism isn’t prerequisite to doing good, and neither should past experiences invalidate your desire to do good.” - Shiva says, cupping Grimnir’s cheek in an attempt to swipe away a bloodied smear with his thumb. It only widens the smudge.

“Wait… wha…?”

At Grimnir’s dumbfounded face, Shiva huffs out a small chuckle.

“You’ve done well. The path of righteousness, in reality, is seldom gilded with praise or poetic chivalry. I also counsel that you do not judge one motivation for following said path as more worthy of another. We all suffer in its pursuit, but our common end goal is lasting and noble.”

It is indeed, a blessing that his heart is now so much lighter, or Grimnir would surely burst into tears and further humiliate himself. Clarity of mind gives his eyes power to wander, and he finally realises how the faces of the corpses around them - grotesquely diseased as they may be - are all at peace.

“...How do you do that, seriously…”

“Well, I mean no offense in judging that you are quite easy to read.” - Shiva ruffles Grimnir’s hair in good humour. - “Our time together has also taught me much of your tendency to dwell. Also…”

He stops himself a little too late. Grimnir’s brows have already furrowed. 

“...Also? You didn’t… use that clairvoyant third eye on me?”

Shiva withholds his response, but the way his eyes evidently shies from Grimnir’s is clear enough a confession.

“Shiva!” 

“Your heart called for me in great distress. As arbiter of salvation, there is nothing wrong with using my strength to fulfill a prayer.”

“Urgh…! So that k… k-kiss was also part of your ‘strength’!?” - Grimnir feels his ears burn with a new violent blush.

To his bafflement, Shiva turns away in a clear avoidance, but not before the deepening in shade of _his_ cheeks catches the wind primal’s eye.

“...Yes?” - Sheepishly, Shiva mutters.


	3. Chapter 3

His blood sings, palpitating with heat under thickened skin. The drag of snow adds leaden weight to his calves. Wedged between Shiva and his innermost layer, Nagaraja curls motionless against his belly. 

Snakes become dormant come winter, even one holy as Nagaraja seems to be no exception to this natural principle. The beast has fought long and hard against their own instinct to keep Shiva company, but constant over exertion only lasts for so long. This holds especially true in an icy world hostile to the very fundamentals of their fiery existence.

The wintry wastelands have taken their toll on Shiva himself, his fatigue exacerbated by months of aimless wandering. The frozen black sky beats down on him with its sporadic, snow-woven breaths which lash like invisible whips, determined to keep him grounded. The sphere of light surrounding him remains, but Shiva can tell, as much as admission pains him, its diameter has been shrinking. His field of vision constricts accordingly. 

“Not yet…” - The primal beast mumbles under a misty breath. 

Having Grimnir see him in such a pitiable state after so long, the humiliation would doubtlessly be unbearable… is what Shiva has been telling himself. The threat worked well in getting him back on his feet, at first. By now it has grown stale. Worn and leached of colour like the braided cord still clinging to his wrist. Feeble, yet resilient and dear to him all the same.

Nagaraja stirring tickles. Shiva’s steeled resolve dully glints, polished by the frayed rags of hope. The barrier of light widens as fresh fire flows from his palm. If he no longer finds the strength within himself to continue, he will march on for his loyal companion’s sake. 

Shiva resumes wandering in a listless stupor from which only the sharp, metallic punch of fresh blood frees him. The stench is overwhelming, forces itself down his nose and perches obtrusively at the arch of his tongue, obnoxiously alerting him to the spectacle of ruin ahead.

He winces from the sudden pressure pooling behind his eyes, which reopen to mangled flesh. A ghastly amount. Pasty, mottled and maimed, drenching the snow on which it sits with blood. It litters the ground to the very edge of his glow and beyond, joined by broken weaponry and shattered armour - grotesque mockeries of the bodies from whence they came. Telling factions, or even species, apart from the indiscriminate carpet of gore is impossible. Men and beasts lay joined in death.

The pressure in Shiva’s skull builds with each step forward, soon entailing realisation. Realisation that spares him too close an examination of this hellscape, but chokes him up with a chilled terror to the likes of which not even he is accustomed. 

The flesh twitches, minimally, with life. Their wounds and amputations, albeit horrific, are non-lethal. There is sophistication to the cruelty of whoever was responsible for this half-baked massacre. Skillful violence for violence’s sake. There is no trace of a desire to kill.

His bowels churn with the immediate instinct to set the whole battleground ablaze, save these wretched creatures from their agony, silence the cacophony of their desperate prayers. But before that, he needs their assistance. 

Shiva makes haste towards a dying soldier whose mutilation should still allow him to speak. 

His knees protest as they sink into the grimy snow, but Shiva snuffs out his own shivers before they can reach the head his hand has carefully lifted. His warmth causes frozen wedges of the soldier’s bloodied hair to thaw, coaxing back consciousness. 

One eye widens in awe at the fire deity’s unearthly visage, baring its jaundiced white.

“Was it the deliverer of heroes, arbiter of war?” - Shiva asks. 

The soldier’s cracked lips flap, throwing voiceless words into the frigid air. Minimal movement causes his single remaining eye to wince in pain.

“Don’t… know…”

No… He can’t be content with this. Maybe he just hasn’t asked the right question yet. A peculiar spectacle such as this is too good a lead to abandon so hastily. 

“He calls himself the Dancing Windstorm?” - Shiva tries again.

A laboured head shake.

“...Descends on fearsome gales wielding a holy lance?”

At this, the man’s lower lip hangs open momentarily. Then tears and renewed terror flood his eye. The subsequent nod is but superfluous confirmation. 

The acute pang in Shiva’s skull forces out of his lungs a breath he wasn’t even conscious of holding back. 

“One final question. In which direction did he depart?”

An unbearable pause ensues, dragging on until finally, comes his first lead.

“...North…”

There’s no telling whether the doomed soldier could hear his thanks. But perhaps making him the first to be liberated by death is adequate an expression of gratitude. 

Engulfing the mass grave, Shiva’s fire hisses at the whirling snow with a desperate fervour as if to assert its contrary existence. 

“May your souls find peace.” - He mutters, back turned and feet already plowing forward once more, northward, led by his own elongated shadow. The wintry squalls ahead cackle with childlike glee, squealing in mockery of the devastation at his back.

\---

The sight before him is alight with life. Their shadows still slant westward, the sun hardly overhead for long, and Shiva has almost lost his giddy partner in the crowds thrice that morning.

Grimnir weaves expertly between knots of people, swift as the gales that carry him while airborne, following a cobblestone path clearer in his own mind than the reality of its obscuration under countless feet. His excitement is overflowing as it is infectious. It almost renders null Shiva’s frustration. 

“Come on, Shiva!! We’ll miss the play!!” - The wind primal yells back over a dozen befuddled heads. 

“Yes, yes.” - His partner replies.

Grimnir’s lithe frame makes navigating through thick crowds a breeze. It also makes him ideal for spooning, which Shiva very much enjoys, but he would still be hard pressed not to feel _some_ resentment for the unfair advantage it grants his partner over himself - one cursed with the excessive width of four arms. 

The fire primal secures his partner’s hand with force, once a clearing among the people allows him. Grimnir’s laughter bubbles with glee at Shiva’s laboured breaths.

“Sorry.” - He says, sounding not the least bit apologetic. 

“Haven’t you seen this specific production five times?” - Shiva heaves a little. - “Whatever the case, I’m glad to see your eagerness sated. However, do not forsake caution.”

“Yeah…” - Grimnir scratches his head sheepishly. “But! Do you not acknowledge that we are literal gods among men!? What is there for us to fear!?” 

“It is precisely because we _are_ gods among men, Grimnir.” - Shiva subconsciously pulls his cloak tighter around his upper limbs, scooting closer towards Grimnir as the crowd swallows up the bit clarity around them.

“Oh, right. Incognito!” - Grimnir makes an odd little ‘whoosh’ that probably sounds a lot more ominous in his head. - “You’re right. I’ll try to slow do-ohwoahwoah!? Hey!!”

The speed at which Grimnir’s amusement stiffens into shock alarms Shiva. But before he can react, the wind primal has sprung into chase. 

The object of his pursuit, though unseen, Shiva decides needs reprimanding urgently enough for him to abandon tact. His muscle-bound arms shove a clear path out of the clamouring mortals, sending a few hapless souls tumbling as he chases the decorative feather on Grimnir’s hat. It takes great pains, but the chase eventually culminates at the end of a narrow, blocked off alleyway. 

Their fugitive comes into full view: a raggedy male child. The moment Shiva’s eyes lay on the reason for Grimnir’s alarm, they darken a shade. 

The child yelps when his offending arm is seized. Grimnir hurries to retrieve the shanti and braided cord that tumble out of his hand.

“Thievery is a sin, child.” - Shiva accuses, his voice menacing.

“Why’d you do that!?” - Even Grimnir snaps. - “Do you know how important this is to me!? Well… I suppose you couldn’t have… But still!”

Both primals are unusually agitated; their anger feeds into one another’s due to the _personal_ nature of what the little ornament represents. This results in the boy being thoroughly intimidated. And yet though frightened, he is unyielding. 

Defiant eyes stare up at them, veiled by fresh tears. His whole body may be trembling but the child stands his ground, as if steeled by a conviction of some feeble justice in his erroneous deed. This reaction further infuriates Shiva, but it sparks another, contradictory emotion inside Grimnir. 

“I’m handing this insolent child over to the authorities.” - Shiva declares sternly.

“Wait!” - Grimnir blurts out.

“What?”

“Can we… I mean the boy and I…” - The wind primal stammers, half busy stringing the cord back around his wrist. - “Can we have some moments to ourselves?”

“But what about the play?” - Shiva asks, puzzled.

“Nevermind that now. Like you said, I’ve seen it like five times already, haven’t I?” 

Nagaraja, who has been hidden and somewhat spooked by the commotion, now rears their head at the proposition of parting with Grimnir. The wind primal strokes under the snake’s muzzle consolingly. 

“It’s fine, guys. You go on ahead and have fun! I’ll take care of us both.”

“But the authorities-”

“Shiva…”

Grimnir _must_ know how good he is, playing Shiva like a harp with those pleading eyes. The latter breathes an exasperated sigh. He supposes they will be fine. If anything happens, the lingam will help bring him to Grimnir promptly.

How his own capability of teleportation never occurred to him during the chase, Shiva has no clue. 

“...Very well. Let us go, Nagaraja.”

“Heheh. Thanks. I’ll see you both in a jiffy!”

He does not end up seeing them in a jiffy. Grimnir disappears with the child for a solid forty eight hours following Shiva’s departure. Were this event of an earlier time period, when Djeeta has yet to grow accustomed to Grimnir’s random stretches of absence on escapades, a search party would very well be sent for him. 

Thanks to the shanti, Shiva can tell his partner is safe. The fact does not soften the sharp crease between his brows as he greets Grimnir stealthily slinking back onboard in the dead of night, however. 

“Hold on! I know what you’re gonna say so before you ask where I’ve been lemme just say I’m sorry!!” - Grimnir spews his tangent as quietly as he can manage. 

“You are, huh.” - Shiva struggles to keep his lips from curling upward. - “Let me ask something you hopefully did not expect, then. What did you do with the boy?”

At this truly unexpected inquiry, Grimnir’s lower lip wobbles slowly as that of a goldfish. Shiva crosses both sets of arms over his torso, anticipating. 

“...Erm. Okay fine.” - Grimnir’s shoulders slump in defeat. - “I’ll tell you once we’re inside.”

Indoor lighting reveals to Shiva the full extent of wear exhaustion has inflicted upon his partner. Grimnir’s already pale skin is rendered paler still, eyes rimmed by the clear bruises of sleeplessness. 

His back hitting the mattress of Shiva’s room with a loud ‘thump’, Grimnir’s moan undulates with the shivers of sweet relief upon his spine. But his vision is quickly framed by black tresses, Shiva peering down on him with mild impatience. 

“Well?” 

“Err…” - Grimnir swallows, avoiding the fire primal’s intense gaze. - “...I was out on a job, with the kid.”

“A job?”

“Yeah… Apparently he snatched the shanti from me thinking it was something valuable. He’s an orphan, and his younger siblings were hungry. They just needed money urgently, so I got him a job at an understaffed souvenir shop in that same town, since they were busy with the play pulling patrons to their door, you know. But then he was too weak from hunger so stuck around to help myself and before you know it...”

“...But did you bring him to the authorities for his crime?”

“Well!”

Their foreheads almost meet in disastrous collision when Grimnir springs upright. Shiva falls back, straddled by an impossibly energetic war god.

“I didn’t mind after all!” - Grimnir’s nostrils flare. - “It would have been bad if the little ones under his care had been neglected due to his arrest… What matters is that the kid has a stable job now, and neither he nor his siblings will go hungry again!”

Shiva pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What matters is crimes reap their just punishment, according to the consecrated laws of the land. You were illogical in rewarding the child for a wrongful deed. Did he emerge from this having better learned right from wrong?”

“...I… I’m sure he did!”

“You are?”

“Y-yeah! He apologised and all… Uhm… There are more important things than lawful right and wrong sometimes, Shiva!”

Grimnir has inched up to his partner’s waist. Shiva finds himself taken aback, not just by their rapidly closing distance, but also the unbridled passion in Grimnir’ eyes. This matter seems at least as personal to him as the symbolic significance of the shanti. It has to do with humanity.

Like a sudden splash of sun into a room as its curtains are thrown open, it dawns on Shiva: what underlies his affection towards Grimnir. His joys, sorrows, yearning, questioning, empathising, his tears, his fears, his love of life - Grimnir perfectly encapsulates what he understands, what he admires, as human. 

Grimnir is a gift - the closest thing to the mortal adherents he so treasures - yet with whom he is blessed with direct contact. But also greater than that, his existence is one that Shiva never tires of trying to understand or can live without. 

Flipping over on his side and pulling Grimnir down with him, Shiva’s chest presses snuggly against his partner’s back.

“Shiva…? Hey! We’re not done arguing!”

“Have we been arguing?” - Shiva feigns ignorance. - “Be silent, god of war. This is retribution for breaking your promise of swift return.”

“Retri… what? But I apologised!”

Shiva huffs into the mop of silver hair under his chin.

“Unlike someone, I am not so easily appeased by flimsy apologies. Now repent.”

With a sullen pout that he is glad Shiva can’t perceive, Grimnir accepts his fate.

“Fwine… Wait… How am I supposed to be repenting? Shiva??”

Encroaching sleep has already slowed Shiva’s breathing as it weaves into his hair.

\---

Their final meeting misses two. Europa has gone completely silent since their last. No amount of reassurance can calm Alexiel, who remains in a leaden, pensive mood throughout the short duration of time she spends with Shiva.

It doesn’t matter if Europa has gone into hiding, or resigned herself to the immaterial realms after her work’s completion, or is simply still too busy for correspondence. Her absence keeps Alexiel desperate and all too tempted to neglect her own duties. Plagued with similar fears of Grimnir having followed Europa’s example, Shiva too, is not at all eager to stay immobile for long. 

They part ways after a measly ten minutes.

Locating a shanti bearer without their active prayer is enormously daunting, but he somehow manages. It feels too much of a hopeless game of hot and cold at first, roaming island after island. Many days would pass before Nagaraja catches the first faint whiff of yearning unmistakably projected from a shanti. Essentially acting as Shiva’s living, breathing beacon, the beast guides him halfway across the skydom. 

Grimnir is spotted all by himself, bloodied and collecting snow on a desolate battlefield, the tip of his lowered lance dragging a crimson trail as he goes. Fixed in a vacant stare, mismatched eyes seem to pull the perpetual night into their darkened, hollow depths. 

The wind primal barely registers his weary joints popping when he is seized in crushing embrace. Familiar warmth pours life into his body’s empty husk. His lips curl into a resigned smile, but Grimnir doesn’t return the gesture. His grip remains frozen around the lance’s grimy shaft despite Nagaraja’s effort to push it out of his fingers. 

“Oh… hi guys! I mean… Greetings, my valued allies - bearer of noble flames, noble king of serpents!” - Grimnir forces some energy, but his clumsy delivery ends up flat. - “It’s been… a while…?”

“Three months.” - Shiva’s voice trembles slightly as he lets go, 

“W-Woah… That long?” - His foot dragging anxious patterns into the dirty snow, Grimnir feels himself shivering under Shiva’s intense blue gaze more than the cold clinging to his skin. - “Guess I lost track of time… Sorry for going MIA for the meetings! Was really busy, y’know.”

“Meetings are no longer an issue. Europa has disappeared and it seems she’s brought Alexiel’s motivation with her.”

“She has!? That’s… terrible…”

Silence resumes. 

“...Well, it’s great to see you guys still doing fine, at least… I’ve gotta go now, though. There’s still plenty of work to do!”

“Grimnir.”

“Do drop me a word if you decide to visit next, so I can have some snack rats ready for Nagaraja… if rats are still around, that is. I hope the rats are okay… Well, bye!”

“Grimnir! We need to talk.”

“I don’t have time to talk!!” - Grimnir snaps. - “I can’t… I don’t need a single minute more to _think_ about what I’m doing, let alone talk, okay!? Can you just leave me be…”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Why!?”

For the first time in the whole span of their history, Shiva doesn’t have an answer. Nothing, aside from his own selfishness which can’t bare Grimnir acting the way he is. Shiva’s hesitation causes Grimnir to unravel completely, explosively. 

“I can’t afford a _second_ to recall how the bones of those unwilling, dying mortals shatter under my spear… or fathers, brothers calling out to their families who are most likely rotting back home… I can’t even close my eyes for too long because more than a dozen tattered portraits of dead men’s loved ones have been seared to the back of my eyelids!!” - Grimnir’s despair snowballs with each word. - “And now you came to tell me of Europa’s disappeared, then expect me to stop what I’m doing and _think_ about one more tragedy!?”

“That is not my intention!” - Shiva finds himself already infected by Grimnir’s tumult. 

“THEN WHAT IS!?” 

Almost as suddenly as it came, Grimnir’s outburst deflates, his voice splintering into a million shards against the mountainsides. The wind primal sinks to his knees, trembling. The realisation of having raised his voice at Shiva, of having possibly injure, causes him to weep bitterly. His stomach churns and twists with renewed heat, the kind of which forced apathy has drained him for so long. 

“...I’m sorry for yelling, I just… I won’t be able to take much more of this if… if I don’t throw myself into it…”

Shiva internally scrambles for the right words. Something, _anything_ , any spark of wisdom to lift Grimnir out of his misery. But he finds none. No words of consolation can mend their broken, heartless reality. 

“Salvation is a noble cause, Grimnir.” - He tries, rather ineffectually, reminding the wind primal of the virtue in their deeds. 

“I know… I know…” - Grimnir whimpers, his swollen eyes still downcast. - “I’ve never forgotten. But even so, it’s too painful sometimes… Sometimes I think… I wish… things were like in the old days, you know? They were short, but… even now they’re a brilliant speck of memory in the back of my mind, shining as the sun once did: those few days I got to spend with everyone on the ship, before everything turned to hell… Can’t we be happy again? Can we ever feel happiness like that again?”

“...I’m afraid not.” - Shiva shakes his head, then bends down to lift Grimnir out of the snow. 

There is no point in kidding themselves. The days of play and jest are long gone. Their future is one of all-consuming, waking nightmare, anticipating an unspecified expiration coded somewhere in their designs. Cursed with artificial immortality. Cursed to be man-made gods. 

Grimnir fondles his upper arm, head lowered like a child being scolded. His lance lays by his feet neglected, slowly sinking deeper into the snow. 

“...Sometimes I wonder if it is unfair.” - He says.

“Unfair?” - Shiva asks.

“How mortals have the choice to devote the larger part of their finite lives to pursuing happiness.”

The howls of frost encrusted winds intrude upon their conversation, and the primals allow it for some time. Then Shiva raises his voice, some nagging urge compelling him to present the truth as it is. He will soon wish he never has.

“We are not mortal. We never have been. Never will be.” 

Something shatters. Not brittle icicles shaken to the ground, not even the asphyxiated rocks breaking apart under their snow covering. The breakage is immaterial, unperceivable. Paradoxically, they both hear it. 

“Heheh… You’re right. What a fool I am.” 

Grimnir chortles dryly. Shiva is immediately overtaken by dread, the feeling that he has set into motion something disastrous. Some gut reaction tells him to take hold of Grimnir at once, but his partner spins away. 

A bitter squall kicks up between them, pulling Grimnir out of Shiva’s grasp completely. The latter is cold from panic.

“You’re always right. Happiness should be regarded as a luxury.” - Grimnir calmly shakes his head from the middle of a vortex, his eyes hollow. - “We _are_ gods among men. We should never forget to carry ourselves as such.”

“Grimnir!!” - Shiva tries in vain to close their distance. Snow collects at the front of his shins, weighing him down.

“I will see this mission to its end, don’t you worry. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

“Grimnir get back down here at once!!”

“Shiva, I…” 

His lip wobble, some voiceless syllables stuck halfway up his throat. Shiva thinks he sees for a brief second Grimnir’s eyes lighting up again, before spiralling snow obscures his vision completely.

“Farewell.”

The white blur fades into impersonal black. Shiva’s feet are buried where he stands dumbfounded, a piece of himself ripped away and carried into the sunless sky. 

Jutting out of the snow where Grimnir was, the shanti clings stubbornly to its braided cord, glimmering in immortal fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took some time but I’m finally out of that last writer’s block and determined to not make this a creative miscarriage \o/


	4. Chapter 4

They say light has the strange effect of narrowing one’s sense of space. After tedious months spent in that of his own fire, Shiva can boldly vouch for the fact. It’s odd how one can be surrounded by so much vastness, yet feel claustrophobic from what little of it he _does_ see. 

The scenes of half-hearted slaughter only get messier as he goes, their perpetrator putting in less and less active effort. Life is vibrant in its vivacity, and death dignified in its finality, but between them occupies unimaginable pain. At this point, Shiva has borne witness to the full spectrum of such suffering. He has had to clean up more ‘botched salvations’ than he can count. 

He is rewarded with blood running more red than brown each encounter, the victims livelier and more alert to his questioning. His trail grows fresher, but so does a natural anger towards the one responsible for these atrocities. It pains him immensely, but even Shiva’s affection, his very motive for this arduous journey, hardens into a resolve for justice. The souls of those who lost their final moments to anguish join the wintry winds blowing over his heart with their icy breaths. 

He happens upon it incidentally, amidst one field of fresh corpses - the final piece to this calamitous puzzle that is Grimnir’s disappearance. The thing reflects his fire differently than the snow does. Rather than returning light in full vibrance, it sucks up any that dares grace its surface. It then spits the light back out in a dull, warped mockery of its former self. 

The dark prism elicits within him an odious feeling of disease. Like an oncoming fever threatening to fry his cells and melt all cognition into incoherence. 

Shiva feels ill just looking at it, even sicker upon realisation that the shards’ numerous siblings are in his direct vicinity. The promise to use his apocalyptic fire sparingly is promptly forgotten in the circumstances. He needs them gone. He needs these accursed crystals gone quickly and entirely. The similarly agitated Nagaraja awakens from their slumber to help Shiva rid themselves of the dark shards. 

To their dismay, fire only replaces the snow on which the fragments rest with temporary patches of bare ground. The sickening effect remains, just as the shards themselves do. 

Realisation comes amidst his worsening mental deterioration. Shiva remembers this substance. He heard many tales surrounding it from the Singularity back in the day. An artificial material created from Astral technology, whose intended function was to control and amplify the power of primal beasts. Notoriously, its usage entailed the side effects of…

His anger and frustration are snuffed out, replaced by feverish urgency. All the puzzle pieces begin gliding into place by themselves. It makes perfect sense. 

Of course Grimnir would seek out something like this. Poor, affectionate, foolish Grimnir. So righteous, so empathetic. Broken yet unyielding, never abandoning his vow to see this mission’s completion in spite of harm to his own being. It must have been torture to shut off an integral part of himself for the salvation of others. It must have been hellish enough for him to seek external means. Anything to make his bleeding heart _stop_ , make himself more efficient, make the battles end more quickly. It didn’t matter if he stopped thinking, stopped feeling. He was a god. He had to _act_ a god.

Shiva feels sicker and sicker with each thought. It is no longer the dark essence ailing him. But what do _his_ feelings matter? What was _Grimnir_ feeling when he let the abominable substance destroy his free will? What would Grimnir feel, were he ever allowed the knowledge that his supposed _true potential_ , liberated by the dark essence, is unending violence which has caused many mortals horrific pain? He would curse himself for sure. For his own weakness, his self-perceived stupidity and negligence. He wouldn’t be able to forgive his own existence. 

Streaks of fire shred the perpetual night. Paths woven between dimensions, accessible only through Shiva’s fire, lead to dead ends. They’re useless as transportation means now, but provide convenient pockets for his intended purpose. Flames sweep up the fragments with their jagged tongues, hurling them into the spatial rifts for quarantine. 

_Grimnir wouldn’t be able to live with himself, were he ever to know_. 

The bitter echoes of truth reverberate in Shiva’s skull.

\---

He is almost caught in the onslaught.

After more months of wandering, Shiva is finally blessed with a timely encounter. It has only just begun when he arrives, fragmented screams ringing through the desolate little village tucked between the rolling slopes of two mountains. The arbiter of war has run out of armed ‘heroes’ to slaughter. Yet, a primal thirst for violence - the essence of his existence - animates him. 

With all the strength his legs can muster, Shiva propels himself towards the sources of the screams. Blood splatters on him, the immediate moments of impact unravelling before his eyes, yet he finds no perpetrator. Hastily flung fireballs, meant to promptly end the lives of those injured, light a trail of enkindled people and houses in his wake. 

The blazes dance, spread, merge, set ablaze a whole corner of the sky. In delirium could one easily mistaken daytime to have returned. Orange sparks take flight, numerous and brilliant, like great swarms of fireflies over the mass grave. They lead Shiva’s absent gaze upward, finally revealing to him the airborne menace he has been searching for. 

His once brother in arms, his friend, his mentor, his beloved. His only enemy in this crumbling world. 

Grimnir leaves Shiva awestruck. He looks different. Radically different. Tragically beautiful. Dripping with _malice_. 

Shiva has been nurturing a wistful fantasy that somehow, the first moment their eyes meet after prolonged separation would be sufficient in halting Grimnir. It would bring a flood of realisation, joy and remorse that instantly thaws the wind primal’s frozen core, sends him tumbling back into his arms. Of course, such amourous fancies cannot be farther from reality. 

Grimnir cannot see him. Shiva is barred from those endeared, mismatched jewels. Over them lays a thick, black blindfold, firmly strapped to his skull by thin iron chains. But sight is not the only sense of which alteration by dark essence has robbed Grimnir. More chains secure a gag wedged between his lips so that no words, not one sound other than primalistic snarls can escape. Most armour has been beaten off his body, corroded by the elements, and in their places web yet more iron chains. 

They’re like parasites, metallic vines coiled around Grimnir’s gangly, pallid limbs that suspend both him and his many lances in midair. They make him look like a marionnette on taut strings amidst countless bloodied lances. Lifeless, yet threatening to burst with an insidious liveliness devoid of warmth. 

Just as Grimnir probably wished: He has been stripped of the senses, cognition, the self necessary to perceive suffering. A murderous doll which follows little more than ingrained compulsion. His freedom is but a just price for the outcome. Most likely his core is damaged, irredeemably tainted to attain this effect. Had he been conscious during the process, the pain alone, many times greater than the discomfort Shiva felt being in the mere presence of dark essence, would have shattered his fragile psyche. 

Shiva isn’t allowed much time to grieve. Hardly has a cold trickle of self-pity hit the pit of his stomach when reflex pumps electricity through his muscles. The rocketing lance grazes his arm. Shiva bolts to the opposite direction of his scalding blood’s spray, right into the cruel palm of a vortex. 

Dodging visible projectiles is second nature, but dodging _wind_ is an utter impossibility. Shiva is catapulted through his own flames, his body’s impact tearing several rotting houses to fiery dust. Never has he felt the heat trapped within his core so acutely, when sweltering air is knocked out of his lungs. 

His ears ring with malicious laughter. No, not Grimnir’s. Grimnir can’t laugh. The dry, bitter squalls at his command cackle in his stead, snickering, taunting. Shiva thinks his vignetted vision catches a subtle upward curl of Grimnir’s bound lips. _This is play to him_. The wind primal is toying with his meal. He has finally rediscovered a worthy playmate, and his invisible ‘pets’’ cheer him on to engage.

In a fit of wrath at such juvenile insolence, Shiva propels his battered body into the air. He immediately finds the very element to be his enemy. It purposefully lifts him higher, much higher than intended, and Shiva is powerless to stop it. 

_”You want to fly? **Fly.** ”_ \- The wind jeers. 

There’s no telling when the stratosphere begins. Shiva feels certain he has reached it, right before the air drags him plummeting down like a meteor. Were he not a god, one who governs fire, the force and friction would surely shred him to bits. But the fall itself is the least of Shiva’s troubles. 

Awaiting him below isn’t collision with the ground, but a bed of upward-pointed lances.

“NO!” - He roars.

Inferno cascades from Shiva’s hands, swirling down in four bright orange streams. The instantly formed bed of hot air cushions him, bringing the descent to a literal screeching halt. 

This move makes Grimnir more amused, more giddy than bewildered. He glides towards his dizzy prey almost dancing. The glowing storm lance in his hand aims straight for Shiva’s head. Nagaraja’s smog-laden breath substitutes their master’s delayed response. It throws the lance off course, giving Shiva enough time to dispatch his trident. 

Steel sings against steel in direct combat. It feels eerily familiar, as if they were only engaging in the usual friendly sparring session. Grimnir seems to be having more fun than he ever did. However, unlike play-fighting, he no longer hesitates to be ruthless. 

Shiva wonders which is the real god of war: The compassionate Grimnir who always holds his punches, apologises ‘if it hurts too much’, cries out unabashedly when wounded himself; or the malicious Grimnir who fights with killing intent, who hedonistically satiates his thirst for brutality. Both _thrive_ on violence - the essence of their design - for sure. It was only humanity that was softening the former’s blows. 

A lance pins Shiva to the ground through his stomach. Blood foams at his lips. Pain sends intrusive black specks flying across his vision, blinding him to the oncoming projectiles. The next lance cuts across his temple, another drives through his hand, more through his remaining limbs, shattering ribs, dislodging joints from sockets. Not even elemental advantage could save him from dark essence’s power amplifying effect. He feels diminutive, vulnerable, like a skewered insect.

It stops suddenly. Grimnir must be busy gloating over his felled opponent, basking in perverse glory before delivering the killing blow. Or he might not kill him. Rationally, sparing Shiva would mean keeping a most resilient toy alive for longer. The altered Grimnir has never been keen on granting his victims the mercy of death, anyway. His treatment of Shiva - whom he no longer recognises - should be no different.

If that’s the case, they will have an eternity locked together in this destructive waltz. Perhaps, then, Shiva ought to contribute his share in designing their hell. 

Rings of fire punctures space. Grimnir winces under his blindfold, backing off from the sudden heat they exude. Out of the many spatial rifts fall dark crystals, one of which lands in a hand that Shiva has sacrificed one finger ripping free. It liquifies like black ice in his palm. 

Nagaraja slithers out onto the snow and begins writhing in pain. Like a great stretch of leather slashed at one end, their single head flares into eight. The octuple heads move in tandem, venomous fangs bared. 

Shiva is hardly aware of his own transformation. How can he, when the feverish blight from before is back by tenfold to destroy him? He vaguely feels joints pulling back in place, gashes stitching themselves shut, extra limbs sprouting from his upper torso, and an overwhelming pressure wrenching his third eye open.

It’s painful, his body forcing itself back together, metamorphosing, crushing cells, burning away extraneous mental restraints as it goes. His enhanced powers make him clairvoyant, but blind at the same time. He can see them all: Grimnir, the lances, every ridge on the mountains that surround them, the altitude of each cloud tuft,... but not as they are. He sees them as blindingly clear targets, imminent victims of his sweltering instinct for destruction. 

That’s right. As violence is to Grimnir, _destruction_ is etched in the fabric of Shiva’s design. 

A violent blizzard kicks up. Their clashes hail thunder, which tear up the clouds and chips boulders off the mountain sides. Natural calamities are but a backdrop to their fearsome standoff. 

Lances and tridents fly with the snow, tipped by icy wind or corrosive fire. Limbs are detached, so are Nagaraja’s numerous heads, but they regenerate in split seconds. Grimnir only grows deliriously more playful the more he receives damage, and Shiva more driven to end his existence along with that of everything else. The levelled playing field inevitably favours Shiva for his elemental advantage. 

The fight culminates in a fragile end. Grimnir’s rate of regeneration has slowed significantly. Truly, all that is artificial degrades, even the most powerful man-made creations. 

Shiva has seconds to shatter Grimnir’s core, while he lays pinned to a brick wall’s remnant, briefly unconscious. His fingers stop short of plunging into Grimnir’s ribs. Something, not his consciousness, for that is in utter tatters, prevents him from finalising the deed. 

It doesn’t make sense. They are both doomed. This entire world is. What point is there in clemency, in going against the full force of his own design? The only thing Shiva knows, or he thinks he knows, is that he wants to see Grimnir’s eyes again.

 _Think?_ When has he gone back to _thinking?_

The wind primal stirs. The torn blindfold which clings limply to his face slips askew. 

Grimnir’s eyelids - pulled shut - make him look peaceful. More peaceful than Shiva has seen him in ages. If he acts now, Grimnir will be safe in that tranquil sleep for all eternity…

Shiva’s fingers rest uselessly on the wind primal’s chest. A wandering thumb swipes some blackened blood off a pale, soft cheek.

Grimnir stirs again.

He’s running out of time. They have neither home nor haven to return to. Grimnir can’t go back to his former self. The reality of what he has done will never allow him innocence, or happiness, or any of those pristine ideals he once foolishly held so dear again. 

A tourmaline eye peeks out from under its slowly lifting lid. 

Shiva’s bowels are on fire. He can’t allow that precious jewel to be clouded by malice again.

Torn lips meet those equally torn. The kiss’ comfort goes lost on their blunted senses, but that is hardly the point. Cleansing flames spill out of Shiva into Grimnir’s mouth, gently folding over both their cores. 

As if aware of the impending end, Nagaraja curls up between their bodies. All fight has drained out of them. The beast knows it no longer matters. 

Fire bleaches away darkness, but corrodes the cores as it does so. 

Only for a few moments, while they still remain, Grimnir deserves his innocence back. No torment shall haunt him for one subsequent minute. 

“Sh…” - The wind primal starts, light having returned to his mismatched irises. 

Shiva chuckles at the hanging syllable.

“Shhh, indeed…” - He says. - “Be still. There’s no need for you to say anything.”

Even as his entire body throb with excruciating pains, Grimnir distinguishes his core’s deterioration. Dark memories come flooding back. Shiva’s embrace endeavours to block them from reentering Grimnir’s mind. 

“I… ‘m… sorr…”

“Hush… Enough apologies. I’m not hurting.” - Shiva lies.

Grimnir can’t quite tell which is worse, the burning in his eyes or chest.

“...But…”

“It’s my turn to apologise… Forgive me for pressuring you to such grisly extents, for not accompanying you…”

Trembling arms return the hug. It’s been so long since Grimnir’s arms last felt like his own. 

The wind’s howls seem to have softened into much gentler murmurs. 

“...I’m glad you’re here _now_.”

“As am I…” 

It gets progressively harder to stay conscious. Static pricks their hearing, muffling the blizzard’s wails into a gentle blur. 

It’s almost like holding large conical seashells to his ears - like the voice of the sea, supposedly. Grimnir has never been to the sea himself; he never had the time. He wonders faintly if the sea really sounds as gentle as the world’s decay. Or maybe it is the other way around? It doesn’t matter. What does is that it makes him light, contented. _Happy_.

The coarse lips kissing his tears away feel sluggish. 

“Let us rest, my dear.” - Says Shiva.

“...Yeah. Good night, love.” - Grimnir replies.

They are happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started just because I wanted to write Shiva and Grimnir beating the shit out of each other in their malice forms. Thanks for reading!


End file.
